


Happy Birthday, Dean

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 20:01:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17535284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: January 24, 2019 marks Dean’s 40th birthday! Here’s a random drabble. No need to RSVP for the party.





	Happy Birthday, Dean

“What’s this?” Dean shifts backward in his seat, elbows perched on the edge of the map room console; the tempting salt scent of bacon teases his nostrils into a delighted flare as you place a plate of steaming pig fat garnished with an oozing red slice of golden-crusted cherry pie on the table in front of him with a spirit-finger flourish; the flame topping the yellow wax candle in the center of the sweet and savory conglomeration of everything the hunter holds gastronomically dear in the world wobbles.

“Birthday bacon and pie!” you proclaim, grin illuminating the perpetually gloom-lit room. 

Greens twinkling, mouth watering, he licks his lips and declares, “You’re the bes-”

Interrupting the accolade, ruffling his hair, you accost his cheek with an affectionate peck, stealing a crisp brown slice from the plate under the cover of the distraction.

“The worst, I meant you’re the worst!” he declares amid husky laughter. Arms grappling after your limber retreating ones, he makes a mock effort to prevent you from absconding with his gifted breakfast, scowling when you hop out of reach, stuff the piece in your mouth, swallow without chewing, and stick out your bacon-bit crusted tongue.

“You know, now that you’re so-” Sam stops mid-sentence to reconsider saying _old_ at his brother’s darkly warning glare. Despite Dean’s adamant ongoing argument bacon will not be the bringer of his untimely demise, the elder Winchester’s cholesterol intake does worry him; but perhaps not enough to squash his joy on this monumental day. Squirming where he sits, sinister crunching of bacon deafening in the silence, Sam goes for a simple smiled murmur of, “Happy birthday … _jerk_.”

Dean mumbles a retorted, “Bitch,” around a smirking bite.

“Oh, I nearly forgot.” Castiel stirs in the seat opposite, pressing his hands searchingly over the pockets of his trench coat and finally finding a white envelope tucked inside his suit coat with the letters D-E-A-N written in script on the front. Setting it on the smooth surface stretching between them, he flicks the card across to Dean with a small smile. “Happy Birthday, Dean. Although, having lived several billion years and not marking any of them with a celebration, I fail to understand what’s so special about a mere _forty_.”

“And I don’t understand why Sam specifically said not to ask Dean how it feels to be _over the hill_.” Jack strolls into the room, his snooping approach in sock-cushioned feet taking all but the seraph by surprise. The Nephilim pauses to ponder the metaphor, focus veering toward the ceiling to escape Dean’s glower as if the answer lay there. “What _hill_?”


End file.
